


We reveled in our unholiness

by crackinthecup



Series: A Cup of Chaos [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Dubious Consent, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:33:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor resolves to teach Mairon a lesson in patience. As might be expected, the circumstances involved are of the salacious variety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We reveled in our unholiness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theeventualwinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/gifts).



> All credit for the style goes to [theeventualwinner](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner). I'm just borrowing it for nefarious purposes. Via the title I am continuing my dubious habit of misapplying poetry, and the hapless poem in question is _Genesis_ by Emily Palermo.

“Shh,” his master all but crooned into his ear, breath tickling in hot gusts down the side of his neck, hand tracing the swell of his hip. 

He tried to jerk away from the slide of his master’s bare skin against his back and the crackling ardor it fanned low in his belly, but only succeeded in yanking the silken leash viciously tight around his neck. He was kneeling on his master’s bed, precariously pressing his forearms and his bound wrists into the mattress to support his weight. A strip of silk coiled round his throat, so thin that it almost sliced into the skin, chafing it into sore redness with his every motion, leashing him to the bedpost with no range of movement. 

He had begged; of course he had. He had pleaded with his master to stop when he had seen the silken sash slithering through his burned fingers; to please let him return to his chambers and his work. Yet his master had merely sneered, a curl of the lip both magnificent and derisive, and had bodily thrown him down onto the bed. He had been stripped, and bound, and panic had surged within him; panic and sickening, giddy desire. He told himself now that his attempts to squirm out of his master’s grasp had been half-hearted out of resignation; but he was not quite certain of its truth. 

The strangling press of silk compressed his airway, making breath scant and the world sizzle in brilliant bursts of color. Upon the bedside table the Silmarils cradled within his master’s iron crown pulsed placidly, yet through half-lidded eyes, through the mounting pressure in his skull, the jewels seared bright as lightning. He tried once more to twist from underneath his master as a biting little kiss found its way to the nape of his neck, and a half-stifled gasp wormed out of his throat as his vision flashed, as the cord tightened. 

“My lord—” he whimpered as his master’s tingling kisses fluttered lower, brushing with warm laps of the tongue against the base of his spine and making him roll his hips into that delectable sensation. 

His master withdrew from him then. His harsh breathing smashed into the air, and moments later his master’s fingers were at his throat, tunneling underneath the vise of silk, loosening it ever so slightly until he was no longer choking. 

“Keep still, little one,” his master instructed, and the smile in his voice made his cheeks flame with humiliation. But he obeyed; he restrained the slight wriggle of his hips as his master’s fingertips returned to stroke over them, as a slick of anticipation roiled in his belly. 

With a careless shove his master forced him to splay his thighs, wide enough for his master to position himself directly behind him. He let his head loll; his eyelids drooped, his breathing shallowed, as something hot and visceral clenched deep within him. 

His master’s left hand snaked around to his front, skimming down the ticklish skin of his abdomen to graze against his length in tantalizing, teasing little touches. He moaned as he felt himself become impossibly harder, and in bold gratification he canted his hips, grinding himself into his master’s palm. But before he could do so again, his master removed his hand, shifting, and sharp nails embedded into his sides; they burrowed into his skin and raked downward in bloodied grooves. He twitched away from the brutality of the touch in surprise and distress and wrong, infuriating arousal. 

“I thought you would have learned patience by now,” his master smirked, the shadow of a smile, of something much darker, much more perilous, diffusing through his voice. “Perhaps you are in need of further incentive?” 

Air crawled past gnawing silk, and he opened his mouth to reply. Or would have but for his master’s hands smearing vivid red streaks down across his hips, once more horribly, obscenely gentle. His breath was torn from him in a gasp. 

“Adorned with blood,” his master mused in an undertone, fingers returning to daub across the crimson mess of his skin; the furrows did not cut deep, but they throbbed and stung, and the trickle of blood down his sides felt so sensual it made him want to retch. “Such savage beauty suits you, little one.” 

A vial was uncorked. His master’s hand spread him all lewd and open as he upended the vial and cool oil dripped down over him, and as the slickness and the coldness made him jump, a low, lascivious chuckle hummed out of his master’s throat. 

His master’s thumb rubbed at his entrance, and desperately he willed himself to relax, to just breathe in, as he felt his thumb dipping in. His master held that pressure, and almost beyond his volition, his hips rocked backward, deepening their contact. But his master’s touch slithered away, and as time congealed and it did not return, he squirmed, knees slipping even further apart. He could not see his master’s grin, but oh he could picture the indulgence smeared across his lips, as suddenly two of his fingers prodded, twisted; leaving him mewling with the heady rush of pleasure rippling through his limbs. 

He tossed his head, the tips of his hair striking like miniature whips against his shoulder blades. The silken cord punched into his trachea, and he choked, in abandon he tipped his head even further backward as delight blazed bright and fervid in the pit of his stomach. It was a perverse ecstasy, dimming the edges of his awareness even as arousal sizzled, but caught in its mesh as he was, he could not quite bring himself to care. Pressure thrummed behind his eyeballs, blood pounded a tattoo at his temples as air scraped down his windpipe, as his neck flexed, veins swollen in throbbing contrast. 

With vicious glee his master plunged his fingers yet deeper within him. He sought that one glorious spot—his vision speckled, his back arched into the bliss of that touch, and for countless seconds there was nothing but crowding sensation. But suddenly his master withdrew, and he was left thrusting back against thin air, frustration welling bitter within him; he spat it out in a whine that rang almost like a curse. 

The nuance was not lost on his master; his hand shot out, and fingernails scraped against his scalp as his head was yanked cruelly backward. His spine curved with the momentum of that inexorable pull, leaving him rasping and sputtering within the choke-hold of the leash. _Patience_. 

“Of late your demands have been arrayed in nothing but plainness,” his master said, almost he purred, but warning sharpened the edges of his voice. The head of his master’s cock slipped against him; he could feel the heat of his flesh beneath the liberal lather of oil. 

“Such impudence, Mairon,” his master clucked as his very tip slid into him in a maddening, burning stretch. He tried to inhale, to ease his flaming lungs, yet it was but a futile effort that ended on a racking cough. The grip on his hair was unrelenting, and he blinked as involuntary tears clustered at the corners of his eyes, for, simply, there was nothing else he could do; there was nothing else he dared to do, not one tiny movement, lest he suffocate in his master’s arms. 

With gutting gentleness his master sank the rest of the way within him, sheathing himself to the hilt, and for fear of tripping into another coughing fit, he swallowed down the groan that brimmed at the back of his throat. 

Yet for all his initial care, his master settled into a wrenching, agonizing rhythm that made him want to shimmy away—snap his hips back upon his master’s length with every thrust—it may have been both or it may have been neither; as it was he merely held himself very, very still, trying to gulp down enough air past the throttling tongue of silk. His own cock bobbed with each roll of his master’s hips; aching and completely ignored between his legs. 

And suddenly his master leaned in close, molding his torso to his scarred back; he gagged with the depth of penetration, the insistent nudges against that sparking cluster of nerves as his master’s hips slowed into tiny, barely there oscillations that might have been almost loving. He longed to twist his head free of his master’s steel fingers, to crush his own lips to his master’s and rock back against him until his master bruised his hips and _fucked_ him; but he didn’t, too well he knew that he could not in truth break his master’s hold, and the thought of what his master might do to him if faced with such a flagrant breach sent a thrill of fractured exhilaration moiling through him that he did not attempt to wholly quash. So instead he focused on breathing, his chest stuttering with the effort, his lungs a painful pillow stabbed full of needles. 

His master’s lips curved into a smile against his ear. He knew his master could sense the rapid firing of his thoughts, he knew what his master expected of him, so he made no attempt to resist when the fingers knotted in his hair flexed, turning his head; he parted his lips for his master’s kiss, a surprisingly tender brush of the lips, swipes of his master’s tongue that almost soothed. And then they broke apart, and in a voice that dripped and stung like molten wax his master formed the words against his mouth: “ _Such_ a good boy.” 

His master peeled himself off his back as he felt that debasement sink all warped and sublime into his bones. The fingers twined in his hair tugged and released their clutch, and his head snapped forward, finally he drew air into his abused lungs in frantic, grateful breaths. His head swam with light-headedness; his lips tingled, heat seethed beneath his skin, howled in his ears with rushing gouts of blood. 

Hands grasped him about the hips, and distantly he heard his master growl, felt ecstasy spiral as his master finally, truly slammed into him on each fierce thrust. He thought he had cried out, but his mind was a splintered haze of fog and brightness—truly he could not tell. 

“Please,” he tried to beg, but only succeeded in croaking in so low a voice that his master almost did not hear him. Almost. “My lord, please, _please_ ,” he repeated, murmuring the plea into the bedcovers as he writhed in pulsing, painful need. 

His master hummed his consideration, nails scratching up his thighs, playing lightly over his length, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Pleasure almost boiled over, he was so, _so_ close, and heedlessly he bucked his hips into that exquisite pressure. But his master’s fingers merely cupped his base, remaining motionless. 

“I think not,” his master pondered, rhythm waxing the tiniest bit harsher. “I believe you need a lesson in patience, Mairon. And I have a mind to hear you beg.” 

“My lord—” he began anew, a beseeching quaver in his voice. He yanked at the cords securing his wrists, needing touch, be it even his own, something, _anything_ to relieve the pressure within him that threatened to tip him into distraction. 

“You can do better than that, little one,” his master sneered, nail grazing against one of the pulsating veins ridging his arousal, and he keened in rapture, in frustration, in the agony curdling within him with every flick of his master’s nail, every lurch of flesh into yielding flesh. 

His master chuckled, and with brittle determination he squeezed his eyes shut. He jerked his head to the side; suddenly he could not stand the constricting silk wrapped round his neck, and oh, how he longed to rip the leash off, to finally suck a full breath into the excruciating tightness in his chest. 

The bedclothes scraped against his nipples as he shifted, the tiny barbells rolling and catching upon the silk, and even that tugging sensation seemed magnified, scorching him from the inside without the possibility of release. 

“Please,” he whispered wretchedly, wetness finally slipping between his eyelashes to streak over his cheeks. 

“What do you want?” 

He grunted as his master’s thrusts forced him further up the bed. The words would not come. They scarpered into the cracks of his jagged consciousness, and besides he very much doubted he would even be able to shove them off his too-dry tongue, so acutely did he feel that his throat was rubbed raw both inside and out. 

“Well, little one?” his master prompted, re-angling his hips, and a strangled wheeze seeped out of him. 

“Touch me, please,” he entreated in soft anguish, feeling the strain in his throat with each bob of cartilage, and hoped that his master would hear him. “Anywhere … I—” 

His master groaned his assent, and his fingers finally, _finally_ , moved, fully grasping his cock, dragging with a firmness that might have been brutal had it not been for the need screeching inside him. It could not take long. With a few flicks of the wrist his master had him spilling his seed across the counterpane, screaming his release, bucking wildly until he lay there almost insensate. 

The convulsions of muscle ripped his master’s orgasm from him too, and bruises were slotted into his flesh as his master’s hands clenched about his hips, as he tilted his head back, hips cracking into him for several abrasive seconds. But he barely even felt it, spent as he was, and though the leash choked him anew, he pillowed his head on his forearms, panting as he willed his hammering heart into stillness. 

Gently his master eased out of him; he could not even muster the energy to groan at the loss of fullness. His master shifted, moving to sit by his head, and he deftly unknotted the leash from around his neck. The silk had not yet glided free when he forced air into his lungs, almost coughing with its stinging coolness, exulting in the dissipating ache in his chest and the flush draining from his face. His thoracic cavity felt almost bottomless as he inhaled, again and again, deep, gusting breaths. 

The bonds round his wrists followed suit. With trembling arms he shoved himself into a kneeling position, and even that meager effort left his chest heaving. His eyes flickered upward to his master’s, and the smile his master bestowed upon him was fond; the fingers stroking over his cheek, wiping away the last traces of his tears, were gentle. 

He knelt still, uncertain whether to stay or to leave, and contented himself with watching his master as he swept the ruined strips of silk off the bed and replaced the vial within its bedside drawer; his master strode out of the room, and with an absent hand he smoothed the tangles from his hair and rubbed the soreness out of his red-lashed neck. Sweat had started to cool on his skin, the violent scratches delved into his sides burned and prickled as raw flesh began to crust over, and a slight shiver tripped through him. 

Still he looked on as his master returned to sit on the edge of the bed and reached for him. A wince quirked over his features when a moist cloth skirted the lacerations, sluicing away the flaking blood across his abdomen and hips. 

“I can do that myself,” he said as he twisted slightly to give his master better access. 

Golden eyes alighted upon his own for a moment, before dropping once more to his distressed flesh. “I know,” his master sighed, and something that was almost a smile plucked at his lips. 

It was not long before his master finished, and the bloodied cloth was discarded, leaving his skin smarting with strange relief from the tepid moisture. His master slipped beneath the quilt and when he noticed he had not moved, he extended a hand toward him with a curious incline of the head. A smile played at the corners of his lips as he took his master’s proffered hand. His mind readily skimmed over the waning tendrils of pain coiling still about his neck, and he let himself be cajoled beneath the coverlet, flush against his master’s side, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck. 

His master rolled onto his side to lie facing him. Praise, a quiet murmur of _well done_ , was pressed into his hair as his master's arm encircled his waist to coax him closer still. With a small smile of contentment he closed his eyes and curled into his master's chest. 

A hand came up to lift the tangled mass of his hair over his shoulder. His master’s fingers skittered over the side of his neck and there settled possessively, and dull discomfort flared in their wake. But his thumb seared against his lips in a lingering caress, and the kiss his master planted upon the crown of his head was but sweet. He merely hummed in acknowledgment, nestling a yawn into his master’s skin, and fell into quiet slumber before he could feel his master’s arm tighten over him.  



End file.
